Upstart
by Dropkicking Bullet Shells
Summary: When Daryl is fighting he is a new man. In the real world, where being different is frowned upon, Daryl is a foreign entity, a stranger to the universe, a stray. Rick doesn't want to be just another face in the crowd. AU Eventual Rick/Daryl


**A/N-** So... yeah, another AU Rick/Daryl story... and it's totally different from what I'm used to.

Upstart is a term used in boxing to describe a new fighter that has potential  
A Stylist is a fighter who relies on skill rather than brawn

**Plot-** When Daryl is fighting he is a new man. In the real world, where being different is a sin, Daryl is a foreign entity, a stranger to the universe, a stray. Rick doesn't want to be just another face in the crowd. AU Rick/Daryl

**Disclaimer-** I do not own The Walking Dead, only the occasional OC that may or may not show up.

**Warning-** intence violence, course language, alcohol/drug use, adult themes, mentions of abuse, etc.

**Pairings-** Rick/Daryl and maybe more as it goes along...

XxxX

"Many have never felt strong, but everyone knows what it is to feel weak."  
_Mason Cooley_

XxxX

**Upstart-**

The bar used to be an old wine cellar. It still smelled of bitter grapes and smooth wood underneath the stale cigarettes and cheap beer.

It was a hard place to find if someone didn't know where to look for it. It was tucked comfortably underneath a set of concrete stairs, hidden behind trash cans and dumpsters in an alley. It didn't have a glowing neon sign that alerted anyone to its existence, if someone knew it was there they could find it. Rick had been told about it by a couple of college seniors who were too cool for the frat crowd.

It was old fashioned and hadn't really been remodeled when the owner had lifted it off a winery a handful of decades ago. It wasn't decorated with tacky sports stuff or cheep Christmas lights to 'spice up the place'. It had the same feel to it since it was first built a century ago.

It was Rick's favorite hang out spot on Saturday nights when he didn't have to study or finish up some big project. That night had been one of those nights when he sat with a cold drink and let his muscles relax one at a time as the stress of the day melted off of him with each passing second. It was calming, releasing.

He always ended up there alone. He didn't have a girl or a boy or a friend. He used to. Not anymore, though.

He liked to think he was friends with the bartender, but Jim wasn't one for talking about more than the weather and occasionally about sports. He'd have nights were he wanted to talk about one and nights where he was in the mood for the other. He was a light switch, but at least he was predictable.

Tonight, apparently, was a sports night.

"You hear about the football game last night?" Jim grinned over at from the other side of the counter, keeping his hands busy as he dried the glasses he'd washed. "Number twelve was sacked so hard he had to go to the hospital!"

The bar was almost completely empty, only two other people were lingering and keeping sure to mind there own business.

"Uh, no, I didn't see that." Rick swirled the beer in his hands around a bit and looked up. "He alright?"

"I dunno, but he's the team's best player." Jim set the clean glasses away and filled Rick's cup up. "I don't know how they're going to make it to the finals now."

"That sucks." Rick took a sip to be polite, but he was running on a nice buzz and not in the mood to get wasted so he didn't plan on finishing it. "This team a favorite of yours?"

"No." the bartender smiled, "I don't have a favorite football team."

"Favorite player?"

"I have a favorite fighter," Jim shrugged with a grin that told Rick that this was what he wanted to talk about. All Rick knew was that he didn't know much about fighting.

"Fighter?" Rick asked anyway, "Like wrestling?"

Jim laughed, "No, no."

"What then?"

"Boxing," Jim spoke over Rick's sour 'oh.', "Bare knuckle fighting, MMA."

"What's that?" Rick sighed, "That last one?"

"MMA?" Jim shot him a look, "You really don't know anything about it, do you. Mixed Martial Arts. It's pretty much two guys in a cage and they beat the shit out of each other until one taps out. No rules."

"None?"

Jim smirked, "A few, but no significant ones."

"Sounds just like wrestling," Rick took another sip of his beer. Maybe he did want to get drunk. "Stupid outfits, drama, staged, the lot."

"It's nothing like that, trust me." Jim sighed, "I guess you're not going to do me a favor than."

"A favor?" Rick perked up at the chance to maybe make a new friend, "What do you need, man?"

Jim met his eyes, looking up off the counter, "My favorite fighter is going up against some out of town guy tonight and I have to work so I can't go and see it. I needed someone to go watch it for me, tell me how it goes."

"And that would be why you brought it up, wouldn't it." Rick tried not to slump.

"Look, I don't know anybody who will help me out, I can't exactly ask my wife's friends to go to an illegal fighting match, now can I?"

"Illegal!" Rick narrowed his eyes, "Really, Jim."

The bartender almost laughed, Rick could see it. "It's not staged."

"I can see that." Rick made a face like he'd tasted something bitter, "So who is this monkey anyway?"

"Daryl Dixon." Jim held the name itself in honor. It was new to see Jim's face light up like that. In a creepy way, of course.

"Where's he fighting tonight?"

"His gym," Jim raised a brow, "His trainer's gym, really, but the guy's not really his trainer anymore since he surpassed the guy years ago. It's more like they adopted each other as family now, so really they both own it."

"You know too much, Jim." Rick pulled out his wallet to pay, "It's scary."

Jim chuckled, "Your beers are on the house tonight if you go to the fight for me."

Rick looked down at his wallet. It was empty. As usual. "Look, I'm not in the mood to go to some illegal fighting match and get arrested by the cops. Bail is more expensive than a couple of beers." He probably had enough on his card to cover it.

"Just 'cause it's illegal doesn't mean the cops really care about them!" Jim protested, "Just last month they held a tournament next door to the police station and you wanna know what happened?"

"Tear gas?"

"The policemen went over to watch!"

Rick huffed, "That's probably just a rumor, Jim."

"It's not, a friend of mine was there."

"Then why don't you just ask that friend to go for you tonight?"

Jim shrugged, "He's out of town."

Rick slipped his card out of his wallet and set it in front of Jim, "Listen, it's not really my thing. Plus, those guys make me feel weak as hell."

Jim sighed and shrugged his defeat off, he moved to scan Rick's card in and push the pin pad over to him. Rick pressed in his numbers, "Well, maybe you should buff up."

"Like I have time for that." Rick scoffed.

"You're cards been declined."

"What?" Rick's eyes widened, "You're fucking with me, aren't you?" Jim motioned for Rick to get a good look at the same screen he was looking at and sure enough it blinked 'declined'. Rick dropped into his seat and set his face in his hands.

"Guess you are going to the fight." Jim smirked.

XxxX

The place was a lot louder than Rick was expecting and really, Rick had been expecting it to be pretty loud.

There was a crowd, a large, overbearing one and Rick felt ever so small when he found himself lost within it. It was mostly sweaty, screaming men that populated the building and just over the sounds of bellowing and cheers, Rick could hear the haunting echo of bones crunching and skin slicking against skin.

Rick's eyes zeroed in on the fight as he pushed and prodded his way ringside. The canvas stood up on a four foot platform, raised up to meet Rick's stomach. Only a foot away was two sets of feet, angry and swift and light. Rick watched them dance together and a man came crashing down.

The crowd went wild.

The man on top was slim and small under his muscles. He was shorter than Rick, by a few inches, and swifter. He was on top and looked like he was going nowhere. He had a fierce challenging look on his face, a snarl that promised pain and humiliation.

He was rugged and tough and sculpted by too many rough fights. Scars littered his body, bruises fresh and sore. Rick could see a vast many of them with his chest naked and his arms void of anything but the tape on his knuckles. The only clothes on his body was a pair of loose sweats that hung low on his hips. Even his feet were bare.

The only thing gentle about him were his eyes. Blue and vast like the ocean. Rick wondered why a man as bristly as him would be blessed by such compassionate, soul searching eyes. He didn't seem the type to use them to see the good in people.

He certainly knew how to take control of a fight.

The second man was taller, stronger and more experienced and Jesus, he didn't stand a chance. The smaller man had him on the ground and was ripping into his face with clenched knuckles and a blood thirsty attitude. It took the referee ten seconds to get the fighter off the other and in ten seconds he did a lot of damage.

The small fighter's corner was barely an arms length away and when the fighter was issued to report there, Rick got a good look.

The fighter's face was swollen in places, along his cheek bones and his jaw and he was spitting blood on the matt, swearing under his breath and licking his teeth. An older man, mid fifties, sat him down and fawned over him.

"Daryl," Daryl Dixon, Rick realized, "look at me."

Dixon spat off to the side again and met the old man's eyes. He didn't speak but if he did, Rick was sure it would have come out slurred with all of the brutal beatings his poor mouth had been under.

"You're too angry." the old man shook his head, "That's not the way we do things, remember. You have to stay calm and out think your opponent. You can't think if your threatening to explode."

On the other side of the ring, the competition was choking on a tooth and shooting vile glares in Dixon's direction.

"This guy's just an undercard, Daryl." the old man had his hands on Daryl's face, checking his bruises and cuts. A kid, eighteen if he was lucky, dropped down beside them and fixed up the cuts that were bleeding with the same tape the fighters were using to protect their knuckles.

"You alright, Daryl?" the kid gave the fighter an encouraging smile and ducked when Dixon swatted for his head. The kid laughed playfully and Rick could barely hear it over the roar of the crowd behind him.

"He's fine, kid," the old man smirked, "As always."

A bell rang and the people in the gym ignited in excitement. The fighters took their poses and the kid and the old man jumped from the ring to stand on the floor. The crowd made room respectfully and the two ended up only a head or so away.

Dixon attacked first and Rick got the feeling he was an assertive person, but the way he moved, despite his movements themselves, made him come off as careful, patient. It was all too confusing and he thought that's where the other fighter got lost too.

Dixon was unpredictable.

A couple of quick dodges and jabs left the bigger fighter bloody and broken and a swipe to the side of his face dropped him to the floor. He was lights out from a punch that looked too easy to push over a toddler.

"How the hell did he do that!" Rick hadn't meant to ask it out loud. He blamed his stunned brain.

Husky laughter reached him from over the screaming and the old man turned to wink at him. Rick glanced over and frowned.

"That punch didn't look heavy, how come it knocked that guy out?"

The old man grinned kindly, he didn't seem to mind that Rick didn't seem to know anything. "Daryl's good at doing things that come off as misleading. If it looks like a blow you think you can handle it wont be."

"That doesn't really explain it."

"You'd have to be at the receiving end to truly understand." the old man laughed.

"And you have been?"

"Oh, many times." the man grinned like it was a fond memory.

"You're crazy."

A group of men had carted Dixon's opponent off on a stretcher and it left the ring empty and the lone fighter hopping on his feet and ready for more. The amount of energy he had was incredible.

The referee shooed Dixon back to his corner and pulled up a mic. In came another man, dressed from head to toe like a suave asshole. He took the microphone and cleared his throat.

"Ladies and gentlemen, now that we are really warmed up, are you ready for the main event!" The crowd appeased him with howls and the suave asshole seemed pleased that the attention was on him. "Let's bring out the last fighter and see if anyone in this town can take down Daryl Dixon!"

Noel Gugliemi. Suave asshole announced the guy and the crowd went wild. The old man didn't cheer and of course Rick could see why, but when he looked over none of the Dixon team was really paying attention.

"Wha' tha fuck ya mean yer not stickin' 'round!" Dixon spoke and, sure enough, his words were slurred a little, like he'd been drinking a bit too much or had a subtle lisp. The southern accent kept Rick from telling how bad it was.

"I'm sorry!" it was the kid that Dixon was pissed at, "My mom called and she really wants me home!"

"This fight is really important, kid." the old man shook his head and radiated disappointment.

"I'm sorry, Dale, but it's my mom." the kid smiled sadly at the other two, Dixon snarled back.

"What if Daryl gets hurt!" the old man grabbed the kid before he could be swallowed by the crowd, "I'm not a cutman."

"Borrow someone from the crowd." the kid bit his lip a little, "I'm sure there's plenty of guys in the crowd fawning over Daryl. Any one of them would give you their first born to be able to fix him up."

"I dunno, Kid."

"Ya leave, an' I'm gonna kick yer ass next time I see ya, Glenn." Daryl glanced over to watch his new opponent flaunt his muscles at the crowd and the referee looked over at them to watch for a sign for a start.

"I'm so sorry, Daryl, but I'll make it up to you!" Glenn was gone before he could hear Daryl's last 'I'll fuckin' kill ya!'.

"Fuck." Daryl turned back to watch the ring and Dale stepped up to talk to him.

"You're going to need another cutman, Daryl." Daryl didn't even need a heartbeat before pointing Rick out of the crowd with broken, gnarled fingers. "Him?"

The bell rang and the fight started.

Rick felt like he was having a panic attack. Air wasn't supposed to be this hard to breathe. The old man, Dale, eyed Rick and motioned for him to come over and before he could protest people were pushing him forward, like they, too, had overheard the conversation.

"I-I don't know how to be a cutman." Rick said upfront, "I don't even know what that is! Is that a fighter because I don't know how to fight and-"

"Hey," Dale placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye, "all you need to do is get up there when Daryl's at his corner, I'll be up there with you. If he's bleeding you can just patch it up with this tape." Dale passed over a role of white duct tape, "It's like first aid. Do you have any kids, uh?"

"Rick."

"Do you have any kids, Rick?"

"No."

"Well," Dale turned to watch as the fighters began, circling each other like a couple of lions. "It's like putting band aids on a toddler, keep it simple, we redo them after the fight."

"I'm not sure I can do this." Rick admitted.

Dale smiled, "Daryl's a good fighter, chances are, he's not going to even get hurt in this fight. That other punk is a nobody. Daryl can take him down easily."

There was a sick crunch and Rick's eyes snapped to the ring in time to watch Daryl fall back and nearly trip. He caught himself and reached up to touch his forehead. His white taped knuckles came back heavy with crimson. Daryl hissed.

"Shit!" Dale was jumping up at the sight of so much blood, his body tense, "There is no way that punch could have cut that deep!" He called to the referee, "He's cheating!"

Daryl blinked as the deep cut above his eye cascaded a distraction into his vision. He kept blinking, strobing his eyes, wrinkling his nose as he tried to see. The other fighter seemed pleased with himself and the crowd and the ref didn't seem to notice.

Daryl's opponent attacked first that time, shooting a couple of blows. Daryl blocked the first one and he yanked back like he'd been burned. The second one hit his shoulder and deflected and as it bounced off, it left deep gouges.

"There's something under his tape!" Dale tried to holler over the noise, "You stupid idiot of a ref! Knuckles can't cut that deep!"

Rick watched and panicked as Daryl failed to block another blow completely and it slid off his wrist to meet his chest. Daryl grit his teeth, but as soon as the other fighter's hand met his skin he exploded with rage, swooping his dominant hand down and around in an uppercut that slammed the other's jaw back and dropped him to the floor.

Daryl jumped on top of him, pinning him and raining solid punches to his jaw. The referee pulled him up and called the round.

Dale was up on the platform before Rick realized he was supposed to be up there too and Rick felt oddly self conscious being on a stag for the crowd below them to see. The lights up there lit everything up perfectly.

It was easy to see how bad the wounds were this close.

Daryl dropped onto the stool Dale had pulled up with him, laying his back flush against one of the four tiny podiums and his arms up against the top ropes. He let his face bleed like it was no trouble to him.

"Rick, tape up the cut in his collar bone and the one on his shoulders." Dale was already working on soaking up what blood he could off the fighter's face, out of his eyes. He inspected the gashes and growled. "These are going to have to be stitched tonight, Daryl." The old man sounded like he was seething.

Rick found another blood painted rag on the ropes and went to work mopping blood and sweat of the scared vessel of the fighter. Dixon was smaller up close, just by a little. He was tapping up the first of the two wounds he was in charge of when Dale finished his and moved to yell at the referee.

Clearing his throat, Rick tried not to look as awkward as he felt. It didn't work. When Daryl turned to look at with an intensity that could start fires Rick felt himself break into a sweat that matched the fighter's.

"So, uh," Rick coughed, "how did that guy cut you so deep?"

"He's got glass under his tape." Daryl's teeth were covered in blood. His mouth must have tasted absolutely awful, Rick noted.

"Glass?"

Daryl glared up at him and his stupid question. Rick gave him his best poker face and moved to wipe down the cut on the fighter's shoulder.

"The ref isn't going to check the other guy out. I think he's been bought." Dale returned baring his news and a sour frown. "I say you throw in the towel, keep yourself from getting too hurt, but I know you Daryl, you're going to do the exact opposite of what I say."

Daryl looked up at Dale from his spot with a resigned stare. He stood up when the referee called them to their marks and Dale shot him one more worried, almost motherly look as he jumped down. Rick followed after, looking as unusual as ever.

"Think he's going to be alright?" Rick felt the need to ask once he had settled in a spot next to the old man.

"I think he'll be fine."

"Why's he still fighting?"

Dale smiled softly, "Mostly because of pride, but partly because this is our gym and if he lost on home turf he'd feel like he dishonored me."

"That's ridiculous."

Dale laughed, "It really is."

When the bell rang again, signaling the fighters, everything moved far too quickly. He saw a blur, the bigger fighter throwing a punch, and then Daryl made a slip, dodging the blow with an agility Rick had never seen before, and like a dancer, gracefully and silent, Daryl moved. The other fighter went for a low blow and Daryl parried. He went for a side jab and Daryl rolled with it. The fighter went for a cross and Daryl bobbed and weaved and finally threw his counter attack, a corkscrew punch that landed directly in the middle of the taller boxer's unsuspecting face.

The fighter dropped backwards as if he had been tasered and there was a moment of complete silence.

Rick exhaled, releasing the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, and in the deathly quiet, he could hear Dale do the same.

The crowd exploded.

XxxX

Rick found Daryl and Dale in the locker room after the gym had been cleared out of spectators. The room was surprisingly clean for a locker room, its white walls shockingly white.

Dale was hunched over Daryl with a needle and stitching kit, setting the fighter on a bench in between rows of storage space. They were talking in quiet mumbling, Dale doing most of the speaking and Daryl listening patiently. Every once in awhile Dale would pull away from his work and let his fighter take a sip out of a bottle of scotch.

"I didn't really take you for a scotch guy." Rick made his appearance and Daryl made a subtle effort to make sure he was decent. He tugged the towel he had around his neck up over his head to hide his face. If Rick didn't know better he would have thought he was shy.

"We're out a' tha good stuff." Daryl scratched the towel into his hair, rubbing out the sweat and the bit of blood in his hair line. He pulled the towel down again and he looked even smaller, younger than before. His hair was matted and messy after that, like he'd just gotten out of bed.

"You were really good." Rick said, "Fighting, I mean."

Dale grinned and went back to stitching. When Daryl didn't answer the old man spoke up for him, "Daryl doesn't accept compliments well, kiddo."

"My names Rick."

Dale shot him a look and shrugged, turning back to focused on not stabbing the fighter in the eye with his needle. "You did good today, too, kiddo."

Rick blinked as if he wasn't sure who Dale was talking to, but when the old man nodded at him he smiled back. "Uh, yeah, sorry. That was my first time."

"You did good." Dale laughed, "I was glad Daryl picked someone I could rely on."

"Why did you pick me any way?"

Daryl took another sip of his drink when Dale pulled away to cut the thread and he cocked his head to look at Rick. There was a moment, and then, "'Cause ya looked like ya had no idea what ya were doin'."

Rick looked a bit confused, but Dale spoke before he could ask about it.

"Have you ever thought about boxing, Rick?"

"Boxing?" Rick shook his head, "It didn't look like you guys were boxing."

"We weren't," Dale clarified, "Not really."

"Then why do you ask?"

"Well, you seem like a respectable man and the gym could always benefit from having more people training. We don't have many right now."

"So?"

"Well, you should give it a go!"

Rick startled a bit at the idea, "Uh, that's very kind, but I don't have any money to-"

"Don't be ridiculous, the membership is free!" Dale threaded a new string into his needle and began work on the cut on Daryl's shoulder, "And you can even use some of our old supplies until you can afford your own!"

"Well,"

"I'm pretty sure Daryl's got a couple of old pairs of gloves laying around here somewhere." Dale glanced around and brushed off his search to focus on his stitching.

"That's a really nice offer." Rick licked his lips, "I'll think about it."

XxxX

**A/N-** More to come later! Yeah, so, yeah, I recently started a whole bunch of stories... Buuut, whatever, I can keep up! I'm almost done with a few of them anyway :}

See you guys soon!


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